Pimp
by JoeMerl
Summary: Topher knows that he's more than just some kind of high-tech pimp, though Claire has a somewhat different take on the matter. Hints of Topher/Claire, the first of this pairing.


Wow. The fandom is brand new, and already we have a bunch of stories already published. I'm impressed, and glad that I seem to not be the only one obsessed with this show. Anyway, though it may be a bit risky to try to write something for a show that's only two episodes old so far, for a pairing of two people who so far have not even spoken, I had to write something, and this Topher/Claire story is the result. I think I'm the first one to do this pairing, which is a bit of a surprise but hey, cool for me. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Topher?"

He looked up, startled by the intrusion of Claire's soft voice in the empty room.

She frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, uh---" He motioned to the rows of cabinets he was digging through, then to his bloody knuckles. "Just some Band-Aids. Cut my hand, and I---" He turned back to her cabinets. "I swear, I think you have every piece of medical equipment ever invented _except..._yeah."

"Oh...I keep those in my desk drawer. Here---"

She drifted over to her desk, opening the top left-hand drawer to produce a small box. He reached out for it. "Thanks."

"Here, I'll do it..."

She extracted a large square bandage from the box and peeled off the plastic, reaching for his hand. He was slightly startled, but didn't resist as she pulled it toward her and carefully laid the bandage across the red cuts. He winced slightly at the pain, but, if she had looked up, Claire would have noticed the tiniest of tiny smiles cross his lips as her fingers touched his skin.

"So, how did you hurt yourself, anyway?"

She looked up, just in time for the tiny smile to vanish. He hesitated for a moment before answering. "I, um---punched a wall," he muttered. His face and tone took on a suddenly sour tone, taking Claire somewhat aback. Despite his many faults (many, many, _many_ faults), one thing you could say about Topher was that he was just about perpetually cheerful.

"What?" And, when he didn't answer, "Are you alright?"

He shrugged, suddenly pulled his hand away from hers. "Eh. Just pissed off, I guess."

A small, knowing smile suddenly passed her scarred lips. "Ah." He looked up at her. "Boyd?"

"What? Oh, no," he said, waving his bandaged hand and taking a casual step away; Doc should have known him better than that, he thought. Boyd and him rarely agreed on anything, but even more rarely got mad at each other. Or at least Topher was rarely mad at _him. _"No..." He absentmindedly picked up a scalpel from the table, then put it down, his hands simply searching for something to do. "It was actually a client."

"A client? Since when do you talk to them?"

His face suddenly broke into a little smirk again. "Today. Apparently he came to complain to DeWitt, and made it a point to track me down while he was here."

Claire crossed her arms; she wished that Topher would get to the point of all this, but he seemed, if anything, to be lost in thought. "Complain about what?"

"Echo."

He was quiet for a moment; he seemed to be on the verge of continuing, but didn't quite want to. Claire just kept quiet; she knew Topher well enough to know he couldn't stay silent for long.

She was not disappointed. "Do you know what he said to me?" Topher suddenly demanded, spinning around to face her.

"No. I don't even know what engagement we're talking about."

"Her last one," he said dismissively, waving his hand. "It was a---standard date thing. A long weekend at the Hilton. Do you know what he wanted to complain about?"

"What?"

"He said Echo _talked too much._"

Claire raised an eyebrow. Topher was suddenly striding across the room again, agitated. It was a strange look for him; Claire had seen him happy before, seen him afraid when there was danger, seen him annoyed lots of times when she bit him with some particularly clever little barb. But she had never quite seen him angry.

"I mean, did you---d-did you even see the last imprint I gave Echo? You'd have barely noticed the difference from when she's Inactive, she was so dumb. Would of made Britney Spears look like a Greek philosopher in comparison."

"Oh, come on. Leave Britney alone."

Topher shot her an annoyed look. "I mean, you should have heard this guy! 'Every time we were done doing it, she just wanted to _talk._ Kept asking when we were getting dinner. You musta made some mistake, she was acting just as bitchy as a real girl.' _Ugh!_" Topher screamed, slamming his hand down on the counter with sudden frustration, then letting out a yelp of pain and holding his bandages.

Claire was silent. She wasn't sure quite what to say. "So he---what? Didn't think Echo was quite...stupid enough?"

"He was upset that she was _human,_" Topher grumbled, shaking his injured hand. "Seemed to think we were selling him some sort of mindless robot. I mean---_duh_ she's gonna ask for dinner. What, he thought slap a new personality in, she wasn't gonna need to eat? I mean---I program that girl with the brain of the world's dumbest nymphomaniac, and he's not satisfied because---what? She's not a friggin' fembot or something?"

Claire was still not sure what to say. It was odd, seeing Topher so emphatic about anything; he always exuded a certain air of not really caring. Though in this case, Claire was having some trouble figuring out exactly _what_ he was upset about; knowing him, she somehow suspected there was more to this than some kind of statement about women's dignity or anything like that.

"So what did you say to him?"

"I told him---well, never mind what I told him. It was...kind of vulgar, the point is, do you know what he said then? 'Well, what kind of a pimp are you? I didn't ask for some sort of chatty bitch.' _UGH!_" he screamed again, slapping the counter and barely even noticing the pain this time. "Can you believe that?!"

"Well, he certainly sounds like an...eloquent man."

"Yeah, you should have seen him. I don't know how he could have afforded an engagement, guy looked like he crawled in from the trailer park...but I mean, really! What kind of a _pimp _am I?! Who does he think I am?!"

"A...guy who rents out sexual partners for money?"

Topher gave her a look. Claire sighed, suddenly feeling tired. "Well, it's true," she said wearily. "I mean, come on, you didn't program Echo with the brain of Bambi McBimbo because you thought the client was going to play checkers with her, did you? I can't say I like this client's attitude, but we both know what he was paying for."

"No---he---he---"

Topher's face contorted for a moment, and when he looked at Claire again, it was with a strange look on his face, something like a weird cross between shock and disgust. "Is that---is that how you think of the job we do here? That we're some sort of, just---high class whoremongers renting out high-tech hookers?"

"Well..."

Claire looked away, wrestling with her thoughts. "I mean, no. That's not all we do. People rent out the Actives for all sorts of reasons---I mean, a few hours ago I was fixing up burns Sierra got fighting a Japanese drug cartel, of all things." She began to busy her hands cleaning instruments that were perfectly spotless already. "But we both know what kinds of things people hire us out for. I'm just saying, I give every Active a full physical examination after every engagement, and I've never seen a 'perfect date' rent-out that _didn't_ involve signs of what your guy was asking for."

"But that's---not---"

Topher sighed, pushing his hair out of his face. "Look, if we were just some kind of a---a high-price brothel or something, do you really think that they would hire me?" He suddenly laughed. "I mean---I gotta tell you, Doc, even the _best_ pimps don't usually employ world-class neurologists, or doctors for that matter. If we were just selling sex, do you really think I would be necessary? Do you really think they would hand me that big fat paycheck to insert a new brain in for every engagement? They would just have me wipe the Actives' minds and just---just---rent them out like _that!_"

He motioned to the window; outside they could see the Actives in the main lobby, drifting around blithely like leaves on the wind. Claire spun around as she heard Topher thump himself on the chest. "I'm not selling _sex,_ Doc---I am renting out _people _to these clients, _real_ people." He rolled his eyes, laughing again as he strode away from her. "You're---you're just like Boyd, you know that? I can't get him to understand either. Those imprints? They are like---_real_ personalities. If you want a whore, go get a whore. If you want a whore who'll dress up like---whatever, act like they like a certain thing, no problem, you can go and buy that on the street." He suddenly strode very close to her, bending down right into her face. She drew back. "But me, Doc? I can sell _actual_ people. Not someone who'll pretend to do stuff for money---I mean, when I program Echo, or Sierra or any of the others, they _want_ to do what I program them to do. I'm making---" He leaned back, clenching his hands, struggling for words. "I can make people _whoever they want._ It's not just about _sex._ Do you think---do you think people ask for, for---okay, you know that one Active, the, uh---Lima, that's her name! Do you know what her last client wanted me to program in?"

"No."

"Shakespeare." Claire looked at him blankly, still leaning back. Topher giggled. "Yeah. Guy was some sort of---big literature buff. Wanted her to know, like, the whole works of Shakespeare by heart, wanted me to try to program her with like, all the big theories about him from the last ten years' worth of literary journals. Do you think he wanted all that for sex? Yeah, I'm sure he boffed her! But he wanted dinner conversation! He wanted to talk about---what Macbeth's shield symbolized, or whatever, I don't know. He wanted a _person._ _I---gave_ him that person. What this guy of Echo's wanted was, was---nothing! He didn't want _my_ part of the job at all! It's like---asking the world's greatest novelist to write a trashy porno script. I perform _art._ I create---_people,_ I create _experiences. _Aren't I right to be upset that people mistake me for some sort of a---a---"

"Pimp?"

"Exactly."

He ended his rant, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Claire intently. She was quiet for a long time, looking away. "So," she said slowly, "you're saying..."

"I'm saying my job is to give people something _real._ Not something empty."

"You sell people, not sex?"

He smiled. "Exactly," he repeated.

Claire turned away, back to her fake cleaning. Topher frowned. He waited for a moment, wondering what Claire was going to say. She remained silently.

Sorely disappointed, he started to go.

"The question," Claire said suddenly, and Topher stopped at the door and turned back in to hear her, "is does that make what we do better...or worse?"

She paused, the cloth and her hand frozen over the flat of her scalpel. Topher was silent for a moment, frozen in place. He looked away, fiddling with the bandages on his hand.

"Thanks for the Band-Aid," he muttered simply, then left without another word.

Claire sighed, putting down the equipment.

"...I wonder if that makes me a madam," she mused softly, running her hand down the scars on her face.

* * *

Given that last line, I wasn't sure whether to call this story "Pimp" or "Madam"...did I make the right choice? Anyway, the romance isn't quite as explicit as I kind of intended, and I threw this together kind of quickly, but how'd it turn out? Please leave a review!


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